


Dissociative Sleep

by aggressive_pepsi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Neurodivergent Sam Winchester, One Shot, Oneshot, POV Sam Winchester, Sam-Centric, Sleepy Sam, brainweird feelings, brainweird sam, neurodivergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:44:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5208062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aggressive_pepsi/pseuds/aggressive_pepsi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's been thinking too hard about everything, and sometimes he just needs a place to be able to shut down entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissociative Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble I wrote at 3am while dissociated myself. But then again all my writings better when done in an altered state of mind.

Soft touches against the sewn interior of the familiar seats, little pebbles hitting the undercarriage as the car sped down an unfamiliar road in some state somewhere. It didn’t matter where, it just was. Sam laid in the back seat, existing. That’s all he could do at the moment, just exist, and lay still, not bothering with seat belts or blankets, just touching things on the inside. His hand found the toy soldier stuck inside the ashtray and for a time fiddled with the frayed end of its rifle, wondering absently if he pulled hard enough would it break free. It wouldn’t. He didn’t try.

Sam had been lying in the back seat pretending to sleep for an hour, though he knew Dean didn’t fall for his act. He knew Dean well enough and Dean knew him. Dean knew enough to know Sam was just taking time to try and process the weight of the universe one second at a time, feeling every sensation that caused his body to keep in motion. It felt tingly whenever Sam thought hard enough about it. He imagined that’s what astral projection would be like. He didn’t try to. He didn’t really care.

The floor of the impala’s back seat was soft as usual with a slight gritty feeling between, likely dirt of sand of some sort. He’d have to make a note to tell Dean, who would have to make a note to vacuum, ecause the only thing that deserves more good treatment than the Impala was Sam or maybe Castiel, but Cas was off somewhere doing who knows what. Sam vaguely wondered, but didn’t try too hard, to imagine what Cas must be doing. It took too much effort, too much thought, to imagine Castiel’s adventures elsewhere and empathize with a hypothetical replica of their friend.

Sam let himself exist for a time. Instead of being somewhat dissociated like he often was, he existed too deeply in the now, in this reality, and just breathed quietly, as quietly as possible as to not disturb the feeling of the air around him. He could feel the dust that shimmered in sunbeams now gone dark swirling still through the Impala’s air conditioning. It felt like hundreds of thousands of tiny feathers that barely grazed his face and arms and skin all over. He didn’t mind. 

It was the feeling of home, of an abstract concept he was grateful to have in his life even if he didn’t fully comprehend the idea at all times. It was nontraditional to start, and a social construct as a whole, so it took to much effort to actively acknowledge that by some technicality of terminology, Sam Winchester was lying in what by a technicality qualified as his bed. It was too much, he didn’t bother.

The static on the radio crackled like old hushed whispers from long since passed imaginary friends. It felt like it slowly phased into his body and soul along with the refreshing wash of music like cool water on a hot day. Dean’s humming gave a quiet anchor to the sound, allowing Sam to keep himself grounded in the moment and not get lost in the variations of sound waves his mind registered as melodic. He didn’t want to think about how the conception of music made little evolutionary sense- he had already thought about that today for an hour trying to deconstruct the idea of music and what made it appealing, and he was done with that for today. Today it was just lying still.  
A faint smell passed Sam’s awareness, though its source was not present in the car. It was an old familiar food that he couldn’t quite place but he nonetheless enjoyed, though he found it distracting from his reverie in the general concept of reality and time. He just wanted to take a moment to exist, not a stroll down memory lane. That was fine though, because in time it passed on like all things do, and Sam was able to again focus on the task at hand.

Through his back, Sam could feel every crack in the road, every rock, it felt as of the Impala was showing him exactly what it saw as it ran down the road at an average of 70 miles an hour, since Dean liked to speed. Sam didn’t process it fully, just let it be, and let the images in his mind turn back into feeling in his back, which just resulted in a soft tingle that was addicting only for its strangeness. He looked up at the ceiling of the car as it throttled down the road, and mapped out stars in the ever so faint stitched repairs of the upholstery, mostly marked by blades and embers of cigarettes. He wondered if underneath in some spaces there were still blood stains, resting against metal of some sort, waiting for something. Everything was waiting, it seemed.

Sam was waiting, though for what he didn’t know. He just ran his fingers over the stitches again and thought how nice they felt, how he would like a strip to take with him so in the nights inside motel rooms when processing existence was just too much, he would have something to pull him back to this moment of being fully and firmly in his body, almost to a fault, instead of the feeling of scratchy bedsheets, which always put him somewhere Else, not Here, not in this moment. But he knew that idea was unrealistic. This leather was expensive and Dean would never give up so much as a scrap of his spare. The man loved his car.

A little bump in the road tapped Sam’s head against the door of the car, reminding him of the feeling of buzzing in his scalp now that he registered his head had been ever so slightly bumping against the window, being the medium through the waves from the tires loving the pavement traveled through. Sam didn’t mind. It made him feel delightfully where he was.

The hunter realized that even as he traced his fingers ever diligently over the stitching on the impalas interior, his body began to slow, grow stiff. It was harder to move even in the slightest, but not in the way that it made him struggle. He gave up, falling into this perfect immobile existence just for a time, consciously making an effort to keep his eyes mostly open as he compared the star chart he made on the ceiling with the one he could see out the window. It didn’t match. Sam hadn’t expected it to. 

Sam felt like his body was heavy and extraordinarily light at the same time. In the same instance, he felt made of stone and likely to float to the celling. He felt like a rope was going to hook around his ankle and pull him up there, and he wouldn’t say a thing. The slight movement of his leg brought his attention to his clothing, primarily his shirt.  
It was soft and warm, regardless of the weather. It felt nice, it felt safe. It was a good feeling beyond that which could describe it, but it at the same time was far from celestial. He loved the feeling of his flannel shirt, even thoug he owned hundreds he never had any intention of lessening his collection.

He let out a soft hum, not realizing he was doing it. His own voice though squeaky from nonfocus, startled him and caused him to jolt slightly. Through that he was able to more properly move, but that movement was highlighted by the fact that Sam realized he was beyond exhausted. He laid still and felt warm in his flannel, like a blanket one wears around him at all times, something that felt right in his heart. It had nothing to do with the actual shirt itself, just the feelings and connotations that they were given. Sam grinned.  
Sometimes for the younger Winchester, existing in a way that requires conscious thought to process was too much. Sometimes he needed a break, and while it didn’t happen often, Sam would feel like he was reverse dissociating. Like he was stuck too far in his body that he felt like he experienced the world anew every time. It was a gift Sam had, to experience everything tenfold. Sam never felt alone, after all, the universe was his friend, and a living thing that took care of him in its own way.. And he thought about this just long enough to shift his focus.

And that alone was all he needed to slow his thoughts from their hyperspeed, to bring them up from their microfocus. It was all he needed to finally fall asleep for the night. Just as the pulled up to the motel.


End file.
